 | Poems (1867) |  |
LATER POEMS.
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A FAREWELL TO YOUTH.
A MIDSUMMER DAY'S DREAM.
Thou fair and hurrying guest!
O Youth, in tears half-drowned,
And half with roses crowned!
Thou sweetness unpossessed!
I pine not for the sound
Of thy swift wings, thy sighs,
Thy whispers, nor thine eyes'
Soft, silent language seek, that sent around
So many a glance, caressing and caressed;
Nor grieve I for thy song,
Glad, sad, and sweet, so long
Remembered, though its cadence broke so soon:
A fond farewell, O Youth,
I take of thee! thy truth
Was sweet, and e'en thy falsehood scarce beguiled;
For thou, thyself a child,
Believing, hoping, loving, didst receive
And give with equal hand, and sweetly keep
And sweetly break thy troth, and wake and sleep
In peace through every change, unchilled, ungrieved;
Thy Waking and thy Dream
So sweet, so close did seem,
That thou wert blest, deceiving or deceived.
O Youth, in tears half-drowned,
And half with roses crowned!
Thou sweetness unpossessed!
I pine not for the sound
Of thy swift wings, thy sighs,
Thy whispers, nor thine eyes'
Soft, silent language seek, that sent around
So many a glance, caressing and caressed;
Nor grieve I for thy song,
Glad, sad, and sweet, so long
Remembered, though its cadence broke so soon:
A fond farewell, O Youth,
I take of thee! thy truth
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For thou, thyself a child,
Believing, hoping, loving, didst receive
And give with equal hand, and sweetly keep
And sweetly break thy troth, and wake and sleep
In peace through every change, unchilled, ungrieved;
Thy Waking and thy Dream
So sweet, so close did seem,
That thou wert blest, deceiving or deceived.
And thou wouldst not remain
To hear reproachings vain;
A print upon the grass, a line between
The rustling boughs of sudden-parted green,
And thou wert gone for ever! Truly fled?
I know not yet! methinks within my heart
Thou hidest still thy bright unsheltered head,
And dost remain, for evermore a part
Of all things fair, and from the violet's eye
Thy smile looks up, thy breath goes wandering by
In many a wild, warm, briery-scented sigh,
Linked with all lovely things that change and cannot die!
To hear reproachings vain;
A print upon the grass, a line between
The rustling boughs of sudden-parted green,
And thou wert gone for ever! Truly fled?
I know not yet! methinks within my heart
Thou hidest still thy bright unsheltered head,
And dost remain, for evermore a part
Of all things fair, and from the violet's eye
Thy smile looks up, thy breath goes wandering by
In many a wild, warm, briery-scented sigh,
Linked with all lovely things that change and cannot die!
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So come and go, dear Youth,
I will not chide with thee! for now the mist
Hath rolled all up the glittering hills sun-kissed,
And broad around me stretch the woods, the plains;
And still the landscape widens, still the sky
Bends over all with broad, unwinking eye,
Above an equal blue, an equal green
Below, and nought is hidden! all is seen
And all is known! But now methinks the lanes
Grow white and dusty, and no flower remains
With brimming cup, no descant wild and shrill
Of all that morn and eve were wont to thrill
My listening ear; the reapers work in bands,
But all is silent: where are now the hands
That sought for mine, the dances light and free?
The tales that seemed beginning still to be,
And pausing woke again, and still were sweet to me?
I will not chide with thee! for now the mist
Hath rolled all up the glittering hills sun-kissed,
And broad around me stretch the woods, the plains;
And still the landscape widens, still the sky
Bends over all with broad, unwinking eye,
Above an equal blue, an equal green
Below, and nought is hidden! all is seen
And all is known! But now methinks the lanes
Grow white and dusty, and no flower remains
With brimming cup, no descant wild and shrill
Of all that morn and eve were wont to thrill
My listening ear; the reapers work in bands,
But all is silent: where are now the hands
That sought for mine, the dances light and free?
The tales that seemed beginning still to be,
And pausing woke again, and still were sweet to me?
But now upon the clear
Calm summer air, I hear,
Far on the silence borne, a distant strain;
A tune that gives and takes,
That hushes while it wakes,
That loosens while it binds a gentle chain:
So sweetly on the sense
It falls, I ask not whence
It comes, nor know I whither goes that tune
More soft than summer dews—
Most like a hand that wooes
An arrow forth—and while I listen, seems
Far off and faint, like music heard in dreams,
To change and fade each dim, half-shrouded pain;
Each fond regret, each care
Is fled;—oh, tell me where,
Dear Shepherd, Thou dost feed Thy flocks at noon?
Calm summer air, I hear,
Far on the silence borne, a distant strain;
A tune that gives and takes,
That hushes while it wakes,
That loosens while it binds a gentle chain:
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It falls, I ask not whence
It comes, nor know I whither goes that tune
More soft than summer dews—
Most like a hand that wooes
An arrow forth—and while I listen, seems
Far off and faint, like music heard in dreams,
To change and fade each dim, half-shrouded pain;
Each fond regret, each care
Is fled;—oh, tell me where,
Dear Shepherd, Thou dost feed Thy flocks at noon?
Oh, tell me in what still
Fair meadows at Thy will
Thou leadest them? by what glad streamlet's flow?
Perchance upon the rocks
Thou sittest now, Thy flocks
With reedy murmurs soothing, while the low
Soft summer winds reply; or by the Well
Thou sittest now, perchance, as once befell
When Thou wert wearied with the noontide glare.
Oh, long-belovèd, let me find Thee there,
And there with Thee abide; the shadows soon
Will fall and darken o'er these pathways wide;
Oh, let me be no more as one aside
That turns unwilling! by Thy tents I dwell,
Thy dear companions know me! Shepherd, tell,
Where dost Thou make Thy flocks to rest at noon?
Fair meadows at Thy will
Thou leadest them? by what glad streamlet's flow?
Perchance upon the rocks
Thou sittest now, Thy flocks
With reedy murmurs soothing, while the low
Soft summer winds reply; or by the Well
Thou sittest now, perchance, as once befell
When Thou wert wearied with the noontide glare.
Oh, long-belovèd, let me find Thee there,
And there with Thee abide; the shadows soon
Will fall and darken o'er these pathways wide;
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That turns unwilling! by Thy tents I dwell,
Thy dear companions know me! Shepherd, tell,
Where dost Thou make Thy flocks to rest at noon?
332
THE WHITE CRUSADE—ITALY, 1860.
“And the earth helped the woman.”
—Rev. xii. 16.
Long, long the foot of pride
Trode down the human heart from hour to hour
With iron heel, and ever on the side
Of tyrants there was power;
Trode down the human heart from hour to hour
With iron heel, and ever on the side
Of tyrants there was power;
Till, seventy summers back,
A Cry went up by night to God for food;
A raven's cry, a lion's, on the track
Of rapine and of blood;
A Cry went up by night to God for food;
A raven's cry, a lion's, on the track
Of rapine and of blood;
And Freedom at the sound
Stirred where she lay within her grave for dead,
And rose up from the earth, and gazed around
Like one disquieted.
Stirred where she lay within her grave for dead,
And rose up from the earth, and gazed around
Like one disquieted.
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As one that hath been dead
Four days, she rose up from her grave; she woke
Fast bound with grave-clothes, hands, and feet, and head;
Yet when she rose she spoke:
Four days, she rose up from her grave; she woke
Fast bound with grave-clothes, hands, and feet, and head;
Yet when she rose she spoke:
Like Lazarus from the tomb
She rose, and stood upright; like him a while
She walked with men,—yet on her cheek no bloom,
And on her lip no smile.
She rose, and stood upright; like him a while
She walked with men,—yet on her cheek no bloom,
And on her lip no smile.
As one that sleeping shakes
Beneath a ghastly slumber-coil, will seem
To wake at dead of night, yet only wakes
Into a fearful dream;
Beneath a ghastly slumber-coil, will seem
To wake at dead of night, yet only wakes
Into a fearful dream;
She woke into a world
Of wreck and ruin; winds and waves that roared,
Men's hearts that failed, and goodliest treasures hurled
To monsters overboard.
Of wreck and ruin; winds and waves that roared,
Men's hearts that failed, and goodliest treasures hurled
To monsters overboard.
They called her, but she shrank;
She stretched her hands to bless, and, lo! a stain
Of blood upon each palm! She groaned, and sank
Into her grave again.
She stretched her hands to bless, and, lo! a stain
Of blood upon each palm! She groaned, and sank
Into her grave again.
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Yet 'mid the tumult fierce
That gathered as she fell, was faintly heard
From fainting lips—a blessing or a curse—
And yet a treasured word;—
That gathered as she fell, was faintly heard
From fainting lips—a blessing or a curse—
And yet a treasured word;—
And still from land to land
The whisper grew, and still the murmur sped
By look, by sign, by pressure of the hand,
“The maiden is not dead.”
The whisper grew, and still the murmur sped
By look, by sign, by pressure of the hand,
“The maiden is not dead.”
Till every heart that knew
A stronger beat, that shook a looser chain,
Caught up the word, until its meaning grew
From hour to hour more plain.
A stronger beat, that shook a looser chain,
Caught up the word, until its meaning grew
From hour to hour more plain.
And some would watch for hours
Beside her tomb, until they seemed to hear,
Beneath the winter's ice, the summer's flowers,
A breathing low and clear.
Beside her tomb, until they seemed to hear,
Beneath the winter's ice, the summer's flowers,
A breathing low and clear.
The nations spake: “But who
Shall roll away this heavy stone, by day
And night close sealed and watched?” They came, and lo!
The stone was rolled away!
Shall roll away this heavy stone, by day
And night close sealed and watched?” They came, and lo!
The stone was rolled away!
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And clothed in raiment white
From head to feet, was seated on the stone
A Shining Form, that earth had given to light
Without a travail-groan.
From head to feet, was seated on the stone
A Shining Form, that earth had given to light
Without a travail-groan.
No blood on brow or palm,
Or on her robe, but in her steadfast eye,
And on her lips, a summons clear and calm:
“Who loves, knows how to die.”
Or on her robe, but in her steadfast eye,
And on her lips, a summons clear and calm:
“Who loves, knows how to die.”
The swords of friends and foes
Are crossed before her breast; her breast is bare,
And bare her feet, and on the way she goes
Lies the red burning share.
Are crossed before her breast; her breast is bare,
And bare her feet, and on the way she goes
Lies the red burning share.
She wakes, perchance to show
Of wounds received in houses of her friends,—to weep,
Like Rachel, o'er her sons brought forth in woe,
Yet never more to sleep!
Of wounds received in houses of her friends,—to weep,
Like Rachel, o'er her sons brought forth in woe,
Yet never more to sleep!
336
THE CLEFT.
1861.
“Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain.
[OMITTED]
“Oh, throw away the worser part of it,
And live the purer with the other half.”
“Oh, throw away the worser part of it,
And live the purer with the other half.”
The skies have voices soft
And loud, they mutter oft,
Dissolve and break in tears of joy and wonder;
More fierce the shock, the din
More harsh, when from within
Earth shakes, self-torn, and riven with secret thunder;
And loud, they mutter oft,
Dissolve and break in tears of joy and wonder;
More fierce the shock, the din
More harsh, when from within
Earth shakes, self-torn, and riven with secret thunder;
And now a ghastly cleft
Yawns wide from right to left,
And sucks and draws the Western World within it;
What voice, what arm uplift
This dire encroaching rift
May close with sovereign spell? and how begin it?
Yawns wide from right to left,
And sucks and draws the Western World within it;
What voice, what arm uplift
This dire encroaching rift
May close with sovereign spell? and how begin it?
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In such a gulf of old
The Roman flung, not gold,
But Youth's heroic hope and Strength's endeavour;
Yet this one of the best
Hath ta'en, and for the rest
Still craves, unclosed, insatiate, widening ever.
The Roman flung, not gold,
But Youth's heroic hope and Strength's endeavour;
Yet this one of the best
Hath ta'en, and for the rest
Still craves, unclosed, insatiate, widening ever.
Say, will ye smoothe it over,
And bid the maid and lover
Dance here away their light-linked hours of leisure?
Yea, smoothe it over, sow it
With grass and flowers; below it
Are sounds that mingle strangely with the measure.
And bid the maid and lover
Dance here away their light-linked hours of leisure?
Yea, smoothe it over, sow it
With grass and flowers; below it
Are sounds that mingle strangely with the measure.
Or, leaning o'er its edges,
Now will ye barter pledges
With clasping hands, and talk of hearts combining,
Or plant the rootless tree
Within it—Liberty,
Hung round with garlands and with ribbons shining?
Now will ye barter pledges
With clasping hands, and talk of hearts combining,
Or plant the rootless tree
Within it—Liberty,
Hung round with garlands and with ribbons shining?
The jagged cleft from side
To side yawns yet more wide;
And Echo from within, your words recalling,
Hath sent from out the ground
The yet more hollow sound
Of loosened earth upon a coffin falling.
To side yawns yet more wide;
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Hath sent from out the ground
The yet more hollow sound
Of loosened earth upon a coffin falling.
Then let it yawn to sever
The Bond and Free for ever:
Than Falsehood's hectic flush of vain relying,
On Freedom's cheek more fair
The glow of health, though there
Across it broad and deep a scar be lying!
The Bond and Free for ever:
Than Falsehood's hectic flush of vain relying,
On Freedom's cheek more fair
The glow of health, though there
Across it broad and deep a scar be lying!
Yea, let the sword pierce through
This tangle, and undo
The knot that doth but harder twist for friction:
Oh, seek not now to bind
What God hath loosed! no kind
Espousals these, but fettered, galled constriction.
This tangle, and undo
The knot that doth but harder twist for friction:
Oh, seek not now to bind
What God hath loosed! no kind
Espousals these, but fettered, galled constriction.
When life meets life with kiss
Of rapture strong, oh! this
Is union, this is strength; then leave the dying
With Death their troth to plight,
In charnel vaults by night,
'Mid dead men's bones and all uncleanness lying.
Of rapture strong, oh! this
Is union, this is strength; then leave the dying
With Death their troth to plight,
In charnel vaults by night,
'Mid dead men's bones and all uncleanness lying.
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There leave them! let the wide,
Deep chasm still divide
'Twixt Night and Day, 'twixt Light and Darkness,—know
That greater than the whole
Is now the part; the soul
Is nobler than the body,—let them go!
Deep chasm still divide
'Twixt Night and Day, 'twixt Light and Darkness,—know
That greater than the whole
Is now the part; the soul
Is nobler than the body,—let them go!
340
THE SATURDAY REVIEW.
“Learn to live, and live and learn,”
In the days when I used to go to school,
Would always pass for an excellent rule;
But now it's grown a serious concern
The number of things I've had to unlearn
Since first I began the page to turn
Of The Saturday Review.
For once (I believe) I believed in truth
And love, and the hundred foolish things
One sees in one's dreams and believes in one's youth—
In Angels with curls, and in Angels with wings,
In Saints, and Heroes, and Shepherds too;
The pictures that David and Virgil drew
So sweetly, I thought were taken
From very life, but now I find
A Shepherd is but an uncouth Hind,
Songless, soulless, from time out of mind,
Who has cared for nothing but bacon.
In the days when I used to go to school,
Would always pass for an excellent rule;
But now it's grown a serious concern
The number of things I've had to unlearn
Since first I began the page to turn
Of The Saturday Review.
For once (I believe) I believed in truth
And love, and the hundred foolish things
One sees in one's dreams and believes in one's youth—
In Angels with curls, and in Angels with wings,
In Saints, and Heroes, and Shepherds too;
The pictures that David and Virgil drew
So sweetly, I thought were taken
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A Shepherd is but an uncouth Hind,
Songless, soulless, from time out of mind,
Who has cared for nothing but bacon.
And though to confess it may well seem strange,
When I had them by scores and dozens
(I was young, to be sure, and all things change),
I really have liked my cousins,
And schoolfellows too, and can bring to mind
Some uncles of mine who were truly kind,
And aunts who were far from crusty;
And even my country neighbours too
Didn't seem by half such a tedious crew
As now I find they must be.
When I had them by scores and dozens
(I was young, to be sure, and all things change),
I really have liked my cousins,
And schoolfellows too, and can bring to mind
Some uncles of mine who were truly kind,
And aunts who were far from crusty;
And even my country neighbours too
Didn't seem by half such a tedious crew
As now I find they must be.
And I used to think it might be kind,
In the world's great marching order,
To help the poor stragglers left behind,
Halt and maimed, and broken and blind,
On their way to a distant border;
Not to speak of the virtuous poor, I thought
There was here and there a sinner
Might be mended a little, though not of the sort
One would think of asking to dinner.
But now I find that no one believes
In Ragged Children, or Penitent Thieves,
Or Homeless Homes, but a few Old Maids
Who have tried and failed at all other trades,
And who take to these things for recreation
In their aimless life's dull Long Vacation.
In the world's great marching order,
To help the poor stragglers left behind,
Halt and maimed, and broken and blind,
On their way to a distant border;
Not to speak of the virtuous poor, I thought
There was here and there a sinner
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One would think of asking to dinner.
But now I find that no one believes
In Ragged Children, or Penitent Thieves,
Or Homeless Homes, but a few Old Maids
Who have tried and failed at all other trades,
And who take to these things for recreation
In their aimless life's dull Long Vacation.
And so as we're going along with the Priest
And Levite (the roads are more dry in the East)
We need have no hesitation,
When the mud is lying about so thick,
To scatter a little and let it stick
To the coat of the Good Samaritan, used
To be spattered, battered, blackened, and bruised;
These sort of people don't mind it the least—
Why, bless you, it's their vocation!
And Levite (the roads are more dry in the East)
We need have no hesitation,
When the mud is lying about so thick,
To scatter a little and let it stick
To the coat of the Good Samaritan, used
To be spattered, battered, blackened, and bruised;
These sort of people don't mind it the least—
Why, bless you, it's their vocation!
Yet sometimes I've thought it a little strange,—
When good people get such very hard change,
In return for their kindly halfpence,
When the few who are grieved for sorrows and sins
Are bowled to the earth like wooden pins,
When to care for the heathen, or pity the slave,
Sets a man down for fool or knave,
With The Saturday in its sapience,—
Things that are mean and base and low
Are checked by never a word or blow;
The gaping crowds that go in hope
To see Blondin slip from the cruel rope
Tightened or slack, and come away
In trust of more luck another day,
Meet never a line's reproving;
Heenan and Sayers may pound and thwack
Each other blue and yellow and black,
And only get a pat on the back
From the power that keeps all moving.
When good people get such very hard change,
In return for their kindly halfpence,
When the few who are grieved for sorrows and sins
Are bowled to the earth like wooden pins,
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Sets a man down for fool or knave,
With The Saturday in its sapience,—
Things that are mean and base and low
Are checked by never a word or blow;
The gaping crowds that go in hope
To see Blondin slip from the cruel rope
Tightened or slack, and come away
In trust of more luck another day,
Meet never a line's reproving;
Heenan and Sayers may pound and thwack
Each other blue and yellow and black,
And only get a pat on the back
From the power that keeps all moving.
And I sometimes think, if this same Review,
And the world a little longer too
Should last, will the violets come out blue?
Will the rose be red, and will lovers woo
In the foolish way that they used to do?
Will doves in the summer woodlands coo,
And the nightingales mourn without asking leave?
Will the lark have an instinct left to cleave
The sunny air with her song and her wing?—
Perhaps we may move to abolish spring;
And now that we've grown so hard to please,
We may think that we're bored by the grass and the trees;
The moon may be proved a piece of cheese,
Or an operatic delusion.
Fathers and Mothers may have to go,
Brothers and Sisters be voted slow,
Christmas a tax that one's forced to pay,
And Heaven itself but an out-of-the-way
Old-fashioned place that has had its day,
That one wouldn't a residence choose in.
And the world a little longer too
Should last, will the violets come out blue?
Will the rose be red, and will lovers woo
In the foolish way that they used to do?
Will doves in the summer woodlands coo,
And the nightingales mourn without asking leave?
Will the lark have an instinct left to cleave
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Perhaps we may move to abolish spring;
And now that we've grown so hard to please,
We may think that we're bored by the grass and the trees;
The moon may be proved a piece of cheese,
Or an operatic delusion.
Fathers and Mothers may have to go,
Brothers and Sisters be voted slow,
Christmas a tax that one's forced to pay,
And Heaven itself but an out-of-the-way
Old-fashioned place that has had its day,
That one wouldn't a residence choose in.
And though so easily learnt, and brief
Is the form our new faith's put in,
When we've said, “I believe in a Round of Beef,
And live by a Leg of Mutton,”
We come to another region of facts,
That are met quite as well by the Gospel and Acts
As by any teaching that's newer—
Life has its problems hard to clear,
And its knots too stiff to be cut by the sneer
Of the sharpest, smartest Reviewer.
Is the form our new faith's put in,
When we've said, “I believe in a Round of Beef,
And live by a Leg of Mutton,”
We come to another region of facts,
That are met quite as well by the Gospel and Acts
As by any teaching that's newer—
Life has its problems hard to clear,
And its knots too stiff to be cut by the sneer
Of the sharpest, smartest Reviewer.
October, 1863.
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A DIALOGUE. IN 1863.
“Well, what news have you got to-day, neighbour?” “Why, the Prince is going to be wed
To the Princess Royal of Denmark.” “Ay, so I hear it is said,
And she'll be a grand young lady, there's no doubt at all; but you see
I never set eyes on the Prince in my life, and he knows nought about me.”
To the Princess Royal of Denmark.” “Ay, so I hear it is said,
And she'll be a grand young lady, there's no doubt at all; but you see
I never set eyes on the Prince in my life, and he knows nought about me.”
“And what other news have you got, neighbour?” “Oh terrible news: abroad
The great Garibaldi's taken and wounded.” “Was he some Lord
Or King? But I know so little of these people beyond the sea,
They seem to be always fighting, it's a pity they cannot agree.”
The great Garibaldi's taken and wounded.” “Was he some Lord
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They seem to be always fighting, it's a pity they cannot agree.”
“Why, then, if you come to fighting, the Yankees are at it still,
As hard as ever they were at the first.” “Well, they must then, if they will.
I suppose they're a sort of cousins of ours; but then they're so very far
Removed, that it doesn't much matter to us how long they go on with the war.”
As hard as ever they were at the first.” “Well, they must then, if they will.
I suppose they're a sort of cousins of ours; but then they're so very far
Removed, that it doesn't much matter to us how long they go on with the war.”
“Now there you are out for once, neighbour, for it's neither more nor less
Than their keeping up of this war so long that's causing our great distress.
They've given up growing their cotton, and sending us any to spin,
And that's the way things keep going wrong, you see, when once they begin.
Than their keeping up of this war so long that's causing our great distress.
They've given up growing their cotton, and sending us any to spin,
And that's the way things keep going wrong, you see, when once they begin.
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“You're not a reader like me, neighbour, or you wouldn't soon forget
The things that they tell in the papers; my word, but they're sharply set
In Lancashire now; and it's my belief, that if things don't soon work through
They'll be taking to dying off pretty fast, if they've nothing else left them to do.
The things that they tell in the papers; my word, but they're sharply set
In Lancashire now; and it's my belief, that if things don't soon work through
They'll be taking to dying off pretty fast, if they've nothing else left them to do.
“Why now, how would you like it, neighbour? I think you would look rather blank
If you hadn't a shilling left in the house, nor a guinea left in the Bank,
If first you'd to part with your silver watch, and then with your handsome clock,
And then with your quilt, and blankets, and bed, till at last you came to the stock!
If you hadn't a shilling left in the house, nor a guinea left in the Bank,
If first you'd to part with your silver watch, and then with your handsome clock,
And then with your quilt, and blankets, and bed, till at last you came to the stock!
“Until when you looked about your room there was nothing to see at all
But just a table, perhaps, and a chair, and the roof and the floor and the wall.
And how would you like to sell your best black coat that you've worn so long?
Or your wife to have to go out and pawn her good Sunday cloak for a song?”
But just a table, perhaps, and a chair, and the roof and the floor and the wall.
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Or your wife to have to go out and pawn her good Sunday cloak for a song?”
“I shouldn't like it at all, neighbour; and as to my wife, why she
Would take on, perhaps, if all were known, a great deal worse than me.”
“And then when there's nothing to do, you see, there's always so little to eat;
And only think of the children, neighbour, how they must be missing their meat!
Would take on, perhaps, if all were known, a great deal worse than me.”
“And then when there's nothing to do, you see, there's always so little to eat;
And only think of the children, neighbour, how they must be missing their meat!
“Now there's that curly Jem of yours, that likes nothing he gets so well
As what he gets with his granny and you, as I've heard you so often tell,
That just when you're sitting down to your meat he's sure to come peeping in,
You wouldn't like it so well, neighbour, to see him growing thin.”
As what he gets with his granny and you, as I've heard you so often tell,
That just when you're sitting down to your meat he's sure to come peeping in,
You wouldn't like it so well, neighbour, to see him growing thin.”
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“I shouldn't like it at all, neighbour, I tell you, but where's the good
Of talking when folks are starving? sure I'd help them if I could.”
“Well, there's nothing so easy as that, neighbour, you haven't got far to send—
It's only like taking a bit of your dinner across to an ailing friend.”
Of talking when folks are starving? sure I'd help them if I could.”
“Well, there's nothing so easy as that, neighbour, you haven't got far to send—
It's only like taking a bit of your dinner across to an ailing friend.”
“Why, not quite so easy as that, neighbour, for if things are as bad as you say,
It's little to better them that we can do by giving them once in a way.”
“Well, giving them once in a way perhaps would come rather short; but then
There is nothing to stop us, that I can see, from giving them once and again.”
It's little to better them that we can do by giving them once in a way.”
“Well, giving them once in a way perhaps would come rather short; but then
There is nothing to stop us, that I can see, from giving them once and again.”
“Why that's very pretty talk, neighbour, but then to be always giving
Doesn't come quite so easy to folks like us that have to work hard for our living.”
“Well, as to the matter of that, neighbour, if we haven't got much to spare
There'll just be the less to send, but still we may always have something to share.
Doesn't come quite so easy to folks like us that have to work hard for our living.”
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There'll just be the less to send, but still we may always have something to share.
“We might all of us give far more than we do, without being a bit the worse;
It was never yet loving that emptied the heart, or giving that emptied the purse.
We must be like the woman our Saviour praised, and do but the best we can.”
“Ay, that'll be just the plan, neighbour, that'll be just the plan.”
It was never yet loving that emptied the heart, or giving that emptied the purse.
We must be like the woman our Saviour praised, and do but the best we can.”
“Ay, that'll be just the plan, neighbour, that'll be just the plan.”
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A SONG TO CALL TO REMEMBRANCE.
A Plea for the Coventry Ribbon-Weavers.
I heard a little maiden sing, “What can the matter be”?
A simple song, a merry song, yet sad it seemed to me,
“Oh, my love is coming from the town, he is coming from the Fair,
And he will bring me ribbons blue to tie my bonny hair!”
A simple song, a merry song, yet sad it seemed to me,
“Oh, my love is coming from the town, he is coming from the Fair,
And he will bring me ribbons blue to tie my bonny hair!”
O lasses fair, that love to wear—O lads, that love to see
The ribbons bright, the ribbons rare—what can the matter be?
At Christmas tide, when all beside are merry and are glad,
How many English hearts are sore, how many homes are sad!
The ribbons bright, the ribbons rare—what can the matter be?
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How many English hearts are sore, how many homes are sad!
The looms are stopped, the hands are still that wrought the ribbons gay;
When anxious fathers have no work the children dare not play;
No cheerful noise around the board; oh! little to prepare!
The mother's work is quickly o'er, but not the mother's care!
When anxious fathers have no work the children dare not play;
No cheerful noise around the board; oh! little to prepare!
The mother's work is quickly o'er, but not the mother's care!
And all is dull and all is chill within the humble room;
Beside his black and fireless hearth, beside his idle loom,
The poor man sits from day to day in garments worn and thin,
And sees the homely comforts go he toiled so hard to win.
Beside his black and fireless hearth, beside his idle loom,
The poor man sits from day to day in garments worn and thin,
And sees the homely comforts go he toiled so hard to win.
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The icicle hangs on the eaves, and silent as a stone
All Nature lies in sleep or death, chilled through unto the bone;
The earth below is white and cold, the skies are cold and grey,
The grave seems very near, and Heaven seems very far away.
All Nature lies in sleep or death, chilled through unto the bone;
The earth below is white and cold, the skies are cold and grey,
The grave seems very near, and Heaven seems very far away.
Oh sad and short the wintry day, oh sad and long the night,
When in the heart there is no hope, and in the house no light,
No fire, no food! yet goodly gifts, yet words of Christian cheer,
Can make the grave seem farther off, can make the heavens more near.
When in the heart there is no hope, and in the house no light,
No fire, no food! yet goodly gifts, yet words of Christian cheer,
Can make the grave seem farther off, can make the heavens more near.
Ye merry hearts, that meet to laugh and dance the hours away,
Ye gentle hearts, that better love in sheltered homes to pray,
Think on the homes whose Christmas guests are only Want and Care,
Think on the hearts too sad for mirth, too sad perchance for prayer;
Ye gentle hearts, that better love in sheltered homes to pray,
Think on the homes whose Christmas guests are only Want and Care,
Think on the hearts too sad for mirth, too sad perchance for prayer;
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For Want and Care are dreary mates, and where they enter in
There Love should follow after quick, for Discontent and Sin
Without the door are knocking loud—oh! keep them waiting there,
And hold at bay the prowling wolf of savage, gaunt despair!
There Love should follow after quick, for Discontent and Sin
Without the door are knocking loud—oh! keep them waiting there,
And hold at bay the prowling wolf of savage, gaunt despair!
A little while and skies will clear that now are overcast;
Our ship that rides 'mid heavy seas will right itself at last;
Come, loving hearts, come, open hands, with bounty warm and wide,
Come, lend our struggling friends a lift, till the turning of the tide.
Our ship that rides 'mid heavy seas will right itself at last;
Come, loving hearts, come, open hands, with bounty warm and wide,
Come, lend our struggling friends a lift, till the turning of the tide.
January 10, 1861.
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A NATIONAL SONG.
Of flowers that bloom in gardens fair, that bloom in meadows free,
I had my choice of all that blow, and I chose me only three;
But I must have them all or none! the first one that I chose
Was Queen of all the flowers that be, the red, the royal Rose!
I had my choice of all that blow, and I chose me only three;
But I must have them all or none! the first one that I chose
Was Queen of all the flowers that be, the red, the royal Rose!
The Rose that blooms upon the rock, and lets the salt sea-spray
Drift over her, nor asks if this be anger or be play;
She bows not down her stately head for any breeze that blows,
She smiles in kindness on her friends, in pride upon her foes.
Drift over her, nor asks if this be anger or be play;
She bows not down her stately head for any breeze that blows,
She smiles in kindness on her friends, in pride upon her foes.
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A lion watches by her root, and all her gallant stem
Is set with thorns, ah, woe betide the hand that touches them!
But deep within the rose's heart, in many a silken fold
Wrapt round, a costly treasure lies of fragrance and of gold.
Is set with thorns, ah, woe betide the hand that touches them!
But deep within the rose's heart, in many a silken fold
Wrapt round, a costly treasure lies of fragrance and of gold.
Then lone and free, on hill and lea, unguarded yet unharmed,
All green I saw the Thistle grow that groweth ready armed,
She flings her arrowy seeds afar to thrive where'er they fall,
Oh grasp the hardy thistle close, or grasp her not at all!
All green I saw the Thistle grow that groweth ready armed,
She flings her arrowy seeds afar to thrive where'er they fall,
Oh grasp the hardy thistle close, or grasp her not at all!
Oh love the thistle well, for she will love thee to the end,
For scorching sun she will not droop, for storm she will not bend;
How fair upon the thistle's head her purple-tasselled crown,
And oh! within the thistle's heart, how soft and warm the down!
For scorching sun she will not droop, for storm she will not bend;
How fair upon the thistle's head her purple-tasselled crown,
And oh! within the thistle's heart, how soft and warm the down!
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Yet must I farther on to seek a flower that loves the West;
I only found a little leaf, with mystic signs imprest;
“Hast thou no flower?” I sadly said, “and hast thou nought to show
But this thy high and heavenward hope, but this thy patient woe”?
I only found a little leaf, with mystic signs imprest;
“Hast thou no flower?” I sadly said, “and hast thou nought to show
But this thy high and heavenward hope, but this thy patient woe”?
“Yet saints have loved thee, fairies danced across thee at thy birth,
And thine are gifts that suit with joy, and gifts that suit with mirth;
Shine on, green leaf, to kindly Trust, to Wit, to Valour dear,
And still let Erin's smile be ours, though smiling through a tear.”
And thine are gifts that suit with joy, and gifts that suit with mirth;
Shine on, green leaf, to kindly Trust, to Wit, to Valour dear,
And still let Erin's smile be ours, though smiling through a tear.”
Of flowers that bloom in gardens fair, that blow in meadows free,
Now have I had my choice of all, and I have chosen three;
I would not live, I would not die, I would not sing for one,
I love them all so well that I must have them all or none!
Now have I had my choice of all, and I have chosen three;
I would not live, I would not die, I would not sing for one,
I love them all so well that I must have them all or none!
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A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
1863.
If ye would hear the Angels sing
“Peace on earth and mercy mild,”
Think of Him who was once a child,
On Christmas-Day in the morning.
“Peace on earth and mercy mild,”
Think of Him who was once a child,
On Christmas-Day in the morning.
If ye would hear the Angels sing,
Christians! see ye let each door
Stand wider than ever it stood before,
On Christmas-Day in the morning.
Christians! see ye let each door
Stand wider than ever it stood before,
On Christmas-Day in the morning.
Rise, and open wide the door;
Christians, rise! the world is wide,
And many there be that stand outside,
Yet Christmas comes in the morning.
Christians, rise! the world is wide,
And many there be that stand outside,
Yet Christmas comes in the morning.
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If ye would hear the Angels sing,
Rise and spread your Christmas fare;
'Tis merrier still the more that share,
On Christmas-Day in the morning.
Rise and spread your Christmas fare;
'Tis merrier still the more that share,
On Christmas-Day in the morning.
Rise, and bake your Christmas bread:
Christians rise! the world is bare,
And bleak, and dark with want and care,
Yet Christmas comes in the morning.
Christians rise! the world is bare,
And bleak, and dark with want and care,
Yet Christmas comes in the morning.
If ye would hear the Angels sing,
Rise and light your Christmas fire;
And see that ye pile the logs still higher,
On Christmas-Day in the morning.
Rise and light your Christmas fire;
And see that ye pile the logs still higher,
On Christmas-Day in the morning.
Rise, and light your Christmas fire;
Christians, rise! the world is old,
And Time is weary, and worn, and cold,
Yet Christmas comes in the morning.
Christians, rise! the world is old,
And Time is weary, and worn, and cold,
Yet Christmas comes in the morning.
If ye would hear the Angels sing,
Rise and spice your wassail bowl
With warmth for body, and heart, and soul,
On Christmas-Day in the morning.
Rise and spice your wassail bowl
With warmth for body, and heart, and soul,
On Christmas-Day in the morning.
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Spice it warm, and spice it strong,
Christians, rise! the world is grey,
And rough is the road, and short is the day,
Yet Christmas comes in the morning.
Christians, rise! the world is grey,
And rough is the road, and short is the day,
Yet Christmas comes in the morning.
If ye would hear the Angels sing,
Christians! think on Him who died;
Think of your Lord, the Crucified,
On Christmas-Day in the morning.
Christians! think on Him who died;
Think of your Lord, the Crucified,
On Christmas-Day in the morning.
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GO AND COME.
Thou sayest to us, “Go,
And work while it is called to-day; the sun
Is high in heaven, the harvest but begun;
Can hands oft raised in prayer, can hearts that know
The beat of Mine through love and pain be slow
To soothe and strengthen?” still Thou sayest “Go;
Lift up your eyes and see where now the Line
Of God hath fallen for you, one with Mine
Your Lot and Portion. Go, where none relieves,
Where no one pities, thrust the sickle in
And reap and bind, where toil and want and sin
Are standing white, for here My harvests grow:
Go, glean for Me 'mid wasted frames outworn,
'Mid souls uncheered, uncared for; hearts forlorn,
With care and grief acquainted long, unknown
To earthly friend, of Heaven unmindful grown;
In homes where no one loves, where none believes,
For here I gather in my goodly sheaves;”
Thou sayest to us, “Go.”
And work while it is called to-day; the sun
Is high in heaven, the harvest but begun;
Can hands oft raised in prayer, can hearts that know
The beat of Mine through love and pain be slow
To soothe and strengthen?” still Thou sayest “Go;
Lift up your eyes and see where now the Line
Of God hath fallen for you, one with Mine
Your Lot and Portion. Go, where none relieves,
Where no one pities, thrust the sickle in
And reap and bind, where toil and want and sin
Are standing white, for here My harvests grow:
Go, glean for Me 'mid wasted frames outworn,
'Mid souls uncheered, uncared for; hearts forlorn,
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To earthly friend, of Heaven unmindful grown;
In homes where no one loves, where none believes,
For here I gather in my goodly sheaves;”
Thou sayest to us, “Go.”
Thou sayest to us, “Go
To conflict and to death;” while friends are few
And foes are many, what hast Thou to do
With peace, Thou Son of Peace? A man of war
Art Thou from Youth! when Thou dost girded ride,
Two stern instructors, Truth and Mercy, guide
Thy hand to things of terror; friends and foes
Thine arrows feel; a sword before Thee goes,
And after Thee a fire, confusion stirred
Among the nations even by the word
Of Meekness and of Right; “Yea, take and eat
Of these my words,” Thou sayest, “they are sweet
As honey; yet this roll that now I press
Upon your lips will turn to bitterness
When ye shall speak its message; lo, a cry
Of wrath and madness, ere the ancient Lie
That wraps the roots of earth will quit its hold,
A shriek, a wrench abhorred; and yet be bold,
Oh, ye my servants! take my rod and stand
Before the King, nor fear if in your hand
It seem unto a serpent's form to grow;
Rise up, my Priests! my Mighty Men, with sound
Of solemn trumpet, walk this city round,
A blast will come from God, His word and will
Through hail, and storm, and ruin, to fulfil;
Then shall ye see the Towers roll down, the Wall
Built up with blood, and tears, and tortures, fall,
And from the Living Grave the living Dead
Will rise, as from their sleep disquieted;
O Earth, this Baptism of thine is slow!
Not dews from morning's womb, not gentle rains
That drop all night can wash away thy stains.—
The fire must fall from Heaven; the blood must flow
All round the Altar;”—still Thou sayest, “Go.”
To conflict and to death;” while friends are few
And foes are many, what hast Thou to do
With peace, Thou Son of Peace? A man of war
Art Thou from Youth! when Thou dost girded ride,
Two stern instructors, Truth and Mercy, guide
Thy hand to things of terror; friends and foes
Thine arrows feel; a sword before Thee goes,
And after Thee a fire, confusion stirred
Among the nations even by the word
Of Meekness and of Right; “Yea, take and eat
Of these my words,” Thou sayest, “they are sweet
As honey; yet this roll that now I press
Upon your lips will turn to bitterness
When ye shall speak its message; lo, a cry
Of wrath and madness, ere the ancient Lie
That wraps the roots of earth will quit its hold,
A shriek, a wrench abhorred; and yet be bold,
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Before the King, nor fear if in your hand
It seem unto a serpent's form to grow;
Rise up, my Priests! my Mighty Men, with sound
Of solemn trumpet, walk this city round,
A blast will come from God, His word and will
Through hail, and storm, and ruin, to fulfil;
Then shall ye see the Towers roll down, the Wall
Built up with blood, and tears, and tortures, fall,
And from the Living Grave the living Dead
Will rise, as from their sleep disquieted;
O Earth, this Baptism of thine is slow!
Not dews from morning's womb, not gentle rains
That drop all night can wash away thy stains.—
The fire must fall from Heaven; the blood must flow
All round the Altar;”—still Thou sayest, “Go.”
And that Thou sayest, “Go,”
Our hearts are glad; for he is still Thy friend
And best beloved of all, Whom Thou dost send
The farthest from Thee; this Thy servants know;
Oh, send by whom Thou wilt, for they are blest
Who go Thine errands! Not upon Thy breast
We learn Thy secrets! Long beside Thy tomb
We wept, and lingered in the Garden's gloom;
And oft we sought Thee in Thy House of Prayer
And in the Desert, yet Thou wert not there;
But as we journeyed sadly through a place
Obscure and mean, we lighted on the trace
Of Thy fresh footprints, and a whisper clear
Fell on our spirits,—Thou Thyself wert near;
And from Thy servants' hearts Thy name adored
Brake forth in fire; we said, “It is the Lord.”
Our eyes were no more holden; on Thy face
We looked, and it was comely; full of grace,
And fair Thy lips; we held Thee by the feet,
We listened to Thy voice, and it was sweet,
And sweet the silence of our spirits; dumb
All other voices in the world that be
The while Thou saidest, “Come ye unto Me,”
The while Thou saidest, “Come.”
Our hearts are glad; for he is still Thy friend
And best beloved of all, Whom Thou dost send
The farthest from Thee; this Thy servants know;
Oh, send by whom Thou wilt, for they are blest
Who go Thine errands! Not upon Thy breast
We learn Thy secrets! Long beside Thy tomb
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And oft we sought Thee in Thy House of Prayer
And in the Desert, yet Thou wert not there;
But as we journeyed sadly through a place
Obscure and mean, we lighted on the trace
Of Thy fresh footprints, and a whisper clear
Fell on our spirits,—Thou Thyself wert near;
And from Thy servants' hearts Thy name adored
Brake forth in fire; we said, “It is the Lord.”
Our eyes were no more holden; on Thy face
We looked, and it was comely; full of grace,
And fair Thy lips; we held Thee by the feet,
We listened to Thy voice, and it was sweet,
And sweet the silence of our spirits; dumb
All other voices in the world that be
The while Thou saidest, “Come ye unto Me,”
The while Thou saidest, “Come.”
We said to Thee, “Abide
With us, the Night draws on apace;” but, lo!
The cloud received Thee, parted from our side,
In blessing parted from us! Even so
The Heaven of Heavens must still receive Thee! dark
And moonless skies bend o'er us as we row,
No stars appear, and sore against our bark
The current sets; yet nearer grows the Shore
Where we shall see Thee standing, never more
To bid us leave Thee! though Thy Realm is wide,
And mansions many, never from Thy side
Thou sendest us again; by springs serene
Thou guidest us, and now to battle keen
We follow Thee, yet still, in peace or war,
Thou leadest us. Oh, not to sun or star
Thou sendest us, but sayest, “Come to Me;
And where I am, there shall My servants be.”
Thou sayest to us, “Come.”
With us, the Night draws on apace;” but, lo!
The cloud received Thee, parted from our side,
In blessing parted from us! Even so
The Heaven of Heavens must still receive Thee! dark
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No stars appear, and sore against our bark
The current sets; yet nearer grows the Shore
Where we shall see Thee standing, never more
To bid us leave Thee! though Thy Realm is wide,
And mansions many, never from Thy side
Thou sendest us again; by springs serene
Thou guidest us, and now to battle keen
We follow Thee, yet still, in peace or war,
Thou leadest us. Oh, not to sun or star
Thou sendest us, but sayest, “Come to Me;
And where I am, there shall My servants be.”
Thou sayest to us, “Come.”
366
A SONG WHICH NONE BUT THE REDEEMED CAN SING.
We came not in with broad
Full canvas swelling to a steady breeze,
With pennons flying fair, with coffers stored;
For long against the wind, 'mid heavy seas,
With cordage strained and splintered masts, we drave;
And o'er our decks had dashed the bitter wave,
And lightening oft our lading, life to save,
Our costly ventures to the Deep were given.
Yea! some of us were caught, and homewards driven
Upon the storm-wind's wings, and some rock-riven
Among the treacherous reefs at anchor flung,
Felt the good ship break under them, and clung
Still to some plank or fragment of its frame
Amid the roaring breakers—Yet we came.
Full canvas swelling to a steady breeze,
With pennons flying fair, with coffers stored;
For long against the wind, 'mid heavy seas,
With cordage strained and splintered masts, we drave;
And o'er our decks had dashed the bitter wave,
And lightening oft our lading, life to save,
Our costly ventures to the Deep were given.
Yea! some of us were caught, and homewards driven
Upon the storm-wind's wings, and some rock-riven
Among the treacherous reefs at anchor flung,
Felt the good ship break under them, and clung
Still to some plank or fragment of its frame
Amid the roaring breakers—Yet we came.
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We came not in with proud,
Firm, martial footstep in a measured tread
Slow pacing to the crash of music loud;
No gorgeous trophies went before, no crowd
Of captives followed us with drooping head,
No shining laurel sceptred us, nor crowned,
Nor with its leaf our glittering lances bound;
This looks not like a Triumph, then they said.
With faces darkened in the battle flame,
With banners faded from their early pride,
Through wind, and sun, and showers of bleaching rain,
Yet red in all our garments, doubly dyed,
With many a wound upon us, many a stain,
We came with steps that faltered—Yet we came!
Firm, martial footstep in a measured tread
Slow pacing to the crash of music loud;
No gorgeous trophies went before, no crowd
Of captives followed us with drooping head,
No shining laurel sceptred us, nor crowned,
Nor with its leaf our glittering lances bound;
This looks not like a Triumph, then they said.
With faces darkened in the battle flame,
With banners faded from their early pride,
Through wind, and sun, and showers of bleaching rain,
Yet red in all our garments, doubly dyed,
With many a wound upon us, many a stain,
We came with steps that faltered—Yet we came!
Through water and through fire
We came to Thee, and not through these alone,
We came to Thee by blood! Thou didst require
One only sacrifice, and like Thine Own,
The life Thou gavest us Thou didst desire,
And all was ready for us! Lo, the knife
And cloven wood were waiting; bound or free
We too were ready! In the battle strife
Or by the lonely altar, unto Thee
We offered love for love, and life for life;
Through swords, through seas, o'er sands of burning flame
We came to Thee! through toil and pain and loss;
Yea! all things failed us but the steadfast cross,
And hearts that clave to it while grief and shame
Still followed where we followed—Yet we came!
We came to Thee, and not through these alone,
We came to Thee by blood! Thou didst require
One only sacrifice, and like Thine Own,
The life Thou gavest us Thou didst desire,
And all was ready for us! Lo, the knife
And cloven wood were waiting; bound or free
We too were ready! In the battle strife
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We offered love for love, and life for life;
Through swords, through seas, o'er sands of burning flame
We came to Thee! through toil and pain and loss;
Yea! all things failed us but the steadfast cross,
And hearts that clave to it while grief and shame
Still followed where we followed—Yet we came!
| Poems (1867) | |